Salvadore managed to make his way downstairs to the common room with a bit of help from his cousin and leaning on the wall. The room was better-appointed than many taverns he'd visited in the past, showing few signs of cheap or repaired furniture, and judging by the attire of several of the patrons, no stranger to loftier blood. It hadn't escaped him that many of the tables had apparently been placed to provide for the maximum possible number of backs to a wall as possible. Juxtaposed with the previous observations it didn't paint a particularly reassuring picture for civic restiveness.
Seated at the table nearest the stair was Pieter. Flanking Pieter on either side were Jaime and, surprisingly, Anton the Elder. Both were obviously armed, obviously recently from a fight and obviously victorious. In contrast to Jaime's cruel grin and Anton's sullen, suspicious glower, Pieter looked the height of civility and refinement. The better sort of pirate, one might say, which wasn't entirely wrong but might have been correct for all sorts of incorrect reasons. Like the efficient subordinate he was, Pieter had an unopened bottle in front of his captain even as the injured man settled into a seat where he could watch the rest of the room. "I take it our two visitors wanted to have a word with you," Pieter said. "The blue one acted like he had a right to be in charge. Anyone I should be familiar with?"
"His heraldry is of the coastal Bordelans, and he spoke as though he expected an admiral to listen to him." Salvadore answered. "If I were to speculate, I'd ask if the names Montaigu, d'Estrees, or Châteaudun have been mentioned around town and cross-reference them with rumors of beached sea-knights who might have a taste for slumming it across the Grismerie." He took a modest sip of his wine straight from the bottle before giving a surprised raise of the eyebrow to Pieter.
His first mate, for his part, shrugged. "The local brew is horse piss, but the good stuff isn't hard to find if you talk to the right people."
A grunt in acknowledgement. "Helmut found one of his cousins then?" Salvadore would hesitate to claim that having the halfling aboard gave him instant access to purveyors of goods that fell off a wagon at some point in their life, but he'd come to expect that any port above a certain size would have at least one of the hairy-footed gluttons who Helmut claimed kinship with who might know a person who knew someone else.
"Not that he's mentioned to us, captain. This place... isn't the sort of place you admit to having relatives from, cousin by marriage or no."
Salvadore duly noted that, filed it away, and continued with the previous topic. "What I'm curious about is who the other man was."
Alonsico sat next to Salvadore's wounded leg, careful not to jostle it. "And why is that, cuz?"
"Because I've heard three different tables asking who it was that walked with the black knight, because the last man to wear the tower on his breast like that tried to kill me, and he spoke with the Duke's voice." His bottle made a disheartening half-empty thunk on the table. "Also I break my fast with the Duke on the morrow it seems. Do let Paco know, won't you?" The sooner the other man started fussing about Salvadore's attire the sooner he'd be not fussing about Salvadore himself.
As his chest and forearm throbbed irritably from his movement, Salvadore nonchalantly turned the conversation to other matters. "How are the crew?"
Pieter sighed. "The Father has decided he's not so desperate as to call Anton to him quite yet, and Gonçalo is no longer fit for the sea. We lost Pero the first night, as well as three of the prisoners, and Martin is abed with a fever. Blood poisoning, we think."
"Damn," Salvadore muttered with heartfelt sincerity. Silently he raised a cup and, with Pieter, offered libations to the dead. "How are the prisoners?"
The Tilean made a 'so-so' gesture. "Physically they find themselves on the mend. We traded the iron in their shackles to a smith if they could remove them without further damage, and after a few false starts they've the hang of it. They've taken to shelter in a warehouse and we've fed them out of our own stocks so body and soul are kept together for some time further."
Baltasar spoke up. "The heart does not live on from bread alone. They scream in their sleep, and I suspect they'll do that until the day they die. I'd suggest handing them over to Shallyans, but...." the older man shifted uncomfortably.
"What is it, uncle?"
"We've spoken to a number of sailors here, and they all say that there hasn't been a Shallyan mission here for years." That, more than anything else said so far, caused a note of acute concern in Salvadore. Shallyans did not seek to draw attention to themselves, but they were always there. A sister might leave an area for a time, but they'd come back or a new one would come in their stead. For an entire city to be without a mission, and for years no less... it was unnatural.
Pieter nodded. "Given our stocks and an agreement we have with one of the dockside gangs we can kept them as they are for another three weeks. We're paying for their meals with the money from the pewter and tin; the local whitesmiths can't get enough of the pewter but we're doing barely more than breaking even on the tin. My concern is that there's little to take on here to sell at the next port."
Alonsico snorted. "Typical of a Tilean to hear of suffering and think of coin."
"Tell me of a way to help them with charity and I will listen," Pieter answered sardonically. "In the meanwhile, I have a ship to steward."
The young man was about to retort but Salvadore put his hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Peace Alonsico, he has the right of it; we help where we may, but even the Dove is restricted in how much she can help. Which is why he's going to take the Foam Dancer to Bordeleaux to continue the voyage as planned."
Alonsico looked doubtful, his father skeptical and Pieter outright surprised to hear that. "You don't mean to-" his cousin said, alarmed. "I mean, unsupervised?!"
"Believe it or not, I have trusted him with errands in the past," Salvadore said. "And who better than a coin-counting Tilean to task the problem of a shortage of coin?"
"Errands in the same city, yes. Not watching me sail off without you in the Foam Dancer," Pieter retorted. "What is your game?"
Salvadore gave a pleasantly bland expression as he met Pieter's eyes and took another sip of his wine. "You know I called your bluff about the self-destruct device in your cabin, right? It's just a bit of clockwork meant to look pretty and... stop looking at me like that." Pieter stood up irritably. "Fine! I'll go to Bordeleaux! Just you see if I return to this blighted place for you!"
When Pieter left the common room, Jaime and Anton following behind him, Baltasar gave a hum of approval. "About time you did that."
"Don't start trusting in my judgement now uncle, you'll undermine my faith in you." Salvadore said glibly.
"Boy, you know you aren't nearly half as clever as you think yourself. One of these days that arrogance is going to repay itself upon you tenfold, and I pray that your father is dead and ash before he can see it happen. Still, letting your man off his leash needed to happen sooner or later. Either he flies back to you, or he wasn't really your man, was he?"
--
"Permission to come aboard?" A man's voice came from the gangplank. The man was a sailor at a glance, and Bibalian by his accent. Salvadore could make out a number of tattoos on his person; the ropes about his wrists and hält fest on his knuckles, and at least two swallows peeking out from under his tunic near his collarbone. Salvadore suspected he'd find more were he to strip him; Myrmidia's sun on his back, the swine and rooster at the soles of his feet, perhaps an anchor. A man of the sea, and a devout one it seemed. Or at least, had been marked as such.
"To the mizzen with you, sailor." The visitor looked confused but knuckled a lock of hair and headed to the back of the ship, where Salvadore took his time greeting him, limping along on his crutch. So, probably not some herald made to dress the part.
Salvadore looked expectant for a long moment, curious as to whether the sailor would attempt to speak to him without leave. After several long seconds when it became apparent that whatever else the man was, he had discipline about him, Salvadore nodded. "Say your piece, man."
Knuckling again, the sailor spoke respectfully but clearly. "Lady Elaine of Corbenic wishes to speak to you about a matter of particular and sensitive interest." Salvadore looked imperiously at the man, then past the docks into the city proper. A slender figure was mounted upon a grey palfrey of exquisite breeding, the woman sitting astride the mare pleasing to the eye in the frail, sheltered way that Bretonnian nobility favored. Being slender of frame and smooth armed, her skin was quite pale and her hair a blonde so light it verged on marking her old before her time. Her face was that of a girl-child, perhaps having hit her twentieth naming day but not her twenty-first. Until you noticed how it was just a bit... off. Hers was a face built for arrogance, and her eyes seemed to glow with self-assurance just as the setting sun seemed to favor her with a purer light than the sullen reds and oranges it washed everything else in. It wasn't hard to see what a singer would praise about her, but Salvadore looked past the face to see the woman. A small, slender arming sword was belted to her waist and she appeared to hold a jeweled chalice of some sort in her good hand.
Salvadore immediately disliked her. He'd seen enough beauties in his day wanting something from him, and few had been interested in having his opinion weighed in the measure. This was a woman who took her fair face not as an accident of birth or a tool to be used, but as her due. Instead of lingering on the figure in the distance, he turned back to watching the longshoremen loading the bundles of pitch-soaked rags and branches into the hold. "If the lady Elaine rides a grey palfrey and the matter of interest is the morrow's bonfire, I have heard of her request from my subordinate. This abomination greets the dawn aflame."
The sailor's voice was slightly alarmed. "Señor I do not doubt your intent nor the heart of your action, yet as one Estalian to a fellow I must warn you; the woman is a hard one to make your enemy. Please señor, do not dismiss her without hearing her words yourself, or else sail from this place before the sun sets. The tides care not for you one way or the other."
Well, he certainly caught Salvadore's attention. "Fine, man. You may tell the lady that I shall deign hear her, but warn her that my opinion on this is most firm." A moment of thought. "As polite as you feel would stand you in best stead; I suspect she will care for me little before the end of our chat, but that is little cause for you not to profit as you may."
The fellow bowed and departed to ferry his message to Lady Elaine, who frowned and spurred her horse forward. Rather than dismounting she simply urged the beast to trot across the gangplank down to where the elven ship lie docked. Every moment meanwhile her bearing indicated a queen on parade. Unlike the Bibalian she did not ask permission before inviting herself, and that lovely mare, aboard.
Oh yeah. Salvadore thought sarcastically as he ordered the longshoremen to abandon ship and unmoor the ship. This is going to end on a high note.
--
Salvadore probably looked much the dashing, roguish figure leaning against the stone wall with his second-best hat pulled low over his face. He would have worn his best, but it didn't have quite the brim he required this morning. In truth he was favoring his wounded foot while trying to hide the bruise around his eye; Guiding Star was a sweetie once she was calm but tended to lash out when startled. The Foam Dancer had enough makeup on-board that he was able to successfully hide the hoofprint on his face before this meeting and the swelling went down a lot faster than he'd expected, but it was still a bit tender and light made that side of his head throb a bit.
The antechamber where he awaited Vicompte Malagent was a study of contrasts. Rather than bearing the glory and splendor of the realm as one might expect of the duke of Bretonnia, the seat of the maybe-a-duke was a combination of obvious antiques - no few of them bearing sign of at one point been at least partially aflame - and functional but rude furniture such as the worn but still serviceable rug and solid yet uninspired table. Pride of place went to a tapestry, expertly woven of what was once fine wool and thread-of-gold but now singed and inscrutable in patches. Landuin of Mousillon, the Grail Companion of old, if he recalled correctly. The first Duke of Mousillon, and the Grail Companion who embodied the virtue of Idealism.
That subject matter made sense as decoration, at least. Opposite the legacy tapestry hung a newer tapestry damaged only by time. It was less richly woven and by a less masterful hand, but the device of Merovech d'Mousillon was unmistakable as it detailed his stewardship of the Duchy, warring against pestilence and vermin first in Mousillon and then throughout the south of the kingdom. Odd artistic choice to arm the rats, but Salvadore supposed whomever commissioned the tapestry preferred to embellish the achievement to give a laudable victory a more martial air.
The last noteworthy decorative choice he'd noticed was a multitude of modest, not-quite-hidden engravings of holy symbols in the walls and archways where the eye is not commonly drawn. Were he elsewhere he might have put it down as an aesthetic choice, but given that Sir Blanchman had cited vampires as a common concern for former lords of Mousillon Salvadore suspected the devotional icons served a more utilitarian purpose in this instance.
Sensing more than hearing the other figure entering the room, Sal turned minutely to face them while still admiring the artwork. The figure was old, hair like dirty snow and with eyes sunk into his face. Judging by his dislocated nose and scarring he'd taken at least one blow to the head from a mace or something akin to it in his life, and he held himself as though he still bore old wounds that never quite healed right. The old man wore armor even in the seat of the duke's power, and his colors were of the same black and yellow as the other knight he'd seen yesterday. Upon his chest was a black serpent rampant, uncrowned. Recognizing the man before him, Salvadore gave a very respectful bow. "Salutations. I had not expected to meet the Sword of Graçay in my lifetime, much less today. I hope the dawn greets you well?" Durand of Gevaudan had won glory as a survivor of a rearguard action against greenskin tribes coming down from Massif Orcal, buying time for the knightly host to retreat and reform. His actions were a beacon of chivalric virtue in an otherwise disastrous campaign, which couldn't have won him many friends among the survivors and families of disgraced knights who limped home.
Though he outwardly maintained an air of impassivity, Salvadore noticed that his visitor was pleasantly surprised to be recognized. "I must admit I am surprised to hear a foreigner hear of Graçay, much less recognize an old knight. I would have sworn no minstrel dared sing of it."
"To my knowledge none has; a teacher of mine rode under Sir Gramont's banner the following year, the common soldiery remembered a knight with fire in his belly and leather lungs." Salvadore smirked. "As well as other anatomical suggestions, but I shall be decorous. All complementary I'm afraid."
To Salvadore's relief the old man had a ghost of a smile pass over his face, which seemed to be all the smiling he'd done in years. "To speak sooth, I had simply grown too disgusted with running with my tail 'twixt my legs and decided it were better to die standing than die tired. Enough others shared my thoughts that we made a fight of it." Then the old knight made a wheezing sound that after a moment Salvadore realized was a laugh. "Made enough of a dog's breakfast of it that I wasn't able to do either."
"For what it is worth, it seems you haven't yet managed to learn such a skill with any great facility. But forgive me, I have not introduced myself; I am Salvadore Cristóbal Antonio Miguel Chavez y Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor." He doffed his hat and bowed as low as his injuries permitted in a rough approximation of a proper courtly bow and spread his arms wide. "At your service, señor."
Sir Durand paused, seemingly waiting to see if Salvadore would continue speaking. "Do all Estalians have such lengthy names? It seems a bit of a mouthful."
A theatrical sigh. "A common enough occurrence I'm afraid, though I bear a lighter burden than many of my countrymen in such a respect; it is not unheard of for feuds to spark between famalias if someone feels their kin's honor has been slighted by a lack of a namesake. The Dowager Princess Manuela bears her honored aunt's name thriceover, I am led to believe, and a man can start rested and grow weary before the end of her formal courtly introductions, once titles are included." Such was the reasoning for her exclusion from courtly life in Portigelle, at least publicly.
Gesturing to the newer tapestry Salvadore changed topics. "I grow curious as to Lord Malagent's choice of decoration. One would think that the ostracization of Mousillon after Merovech's regicide would make his depiction somewhat politically antagonistic, and I question what he seeks to instill in the viewer."
Sir Durand's expression shifted back to a studied neutrality. "What makes you think any thought went into it? Sometimes a tapestry is just a tapestry."
Salvadore snorted. "Where to begin? I met a man named Blanchman of Périgord who told me that Duke Malagent lives after seven years as lord of this place, a laudable accomplishment he claimed." The knight's mouth twitched at the name but he said nothing. "The longest a man has managed since" a more open gesture towards the heraldic device of Merovech "the last Duke d'Mousillon. Either the forces behind the former lords' demise had grown weary of their sport or" a nod to the sigil of a twin-tailed comet hidden behind a candelabra "he grew learned in how his foe thinks and has taken precautions against attacks from more...oblique angles. However, and from here I draw increasingly upon speculation I do admit, I suspect that his studies have taught him how fearfully mortal man is, and that while thwarting an attack is good, defeating his would-be assassin before they are able to make the attempt is a higher mastery of the art. As he has not hidden himself away behind one and a thousand more protections of stone and steel as the dwarf-lords do, he opts to best his foes as he can, but for that he requires allies, which the late d'Périgord tells me lie thin on the ground in fair Mousillon. Ergo he must seek them from abroad, I presume from those more honorable knights that enter his domain from more fortunate lands. Knights who hear of Merovech and think of the regicide, not the Savior of Bretonnia."
"You are uncommonly insightful, Estalian. Or uncommonly informed, and I have not the cleverness to say which I should find more dangerous." The Sword said in a warning tone. "I hope that I will not regret my lack." His hand wasn't exactly hovering over his sword, but the message was clear all the same.
"Peace, Sir Durand. I come to this city with no more ill-will and desire to inflict violence upon its inhabitants than any other competitor in Lord Malagent's tournament, nor do I plan any greater sedition than boasting of wine preferences. I would swear an oath to the Lady of the Lake if it would ease your mind 'pon this."
The other man relaxed somewhat, even if he did not appear comforted by his words. "I would spare you the effort, at least. The Lady is not in Mousillon this time of year, and would likely not hear your words." Surprisingly the man seems less bitter and more resigned about the fact that his goddess lies silent.
Making the sign of the Eagle, Salvadore gives the older man a moment before raising a new topic. "Sir Durand, a matter of etiquette if you do not mind; I have heard Lord Malagent described as both duke and vicompte, yet a vicompte seems a junior title for a lord-paramount while I have heard no Bretonnian address him as a duke. By what title ought he be hailed?"
"Captain Chavez, you touch upon a delicate matter of protocol indeed. Normally the title of Vicompte d'Mousillon would be little used, as it is naturally subordinate to that of Duke d'Mousillon of which the city is the seat. However as the title of Duke d'Mousillon has not been confirmed by the king nor a senior Grail Priestess since Merovech, the title has remained vacant. However, the Vicompte would naturally be the duke unless a more readily apparent heir to the office and, as there is no Duke to prohibit his ascension to the duties and privileges of the office Lord Malagent lies as such." Salvadore nodded along to indicate he understood so far. "Would that the Lady call him to quest, such would simplify much."
Well that didn't seem like a loaded statement. When a liveried servant announced that the master of the house would see him now, Salvadore moved towards the door only to be barred by Sir Durand's mailed arm. "Your arms, captain. I'm sure you understand, given your observations, why the vicompte would be wary about strangers with swords sharing a room with him."
How much to disarm before the meeting with Malagent?
[] Not at all; the locals wander around everywhere armed and armored for a reason. When in Salzmund do as the Salzmunders do. When in Mousillon...
[] Surrender your sword; to walk about visibly armed is terribly gauche, and it wouldn't do to make a poor impression on the lord of the city.
[] Make a show of trust; to hand over one's sword is expected, to hand over the assorted other weapons Salvadore carries is to demonstrate faith in your host's strength and goodwill.
What topics do you broach with Lord Malagent? What do you avoid?
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